


honey in the shade

by couldaughter



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: Patrick smiled faintly. It wasn’t clear if that was due to a lack of strong emotion or a lack of ability due to thebroken bones in his face.“It’s not broken, David,” he offered. He sounded a little like he was trying to soothe a spooked horse which, while a pleasingly romantic mental image, was not so pleasing when David was the metaphorical horse.





	honey in the shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [void_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/gifts).

David pressed the ice pack gently onto Patrick’s cheek. It was fresh from the freezer; his fingers had already started to go numb, his engagement rings damp with condensation.

“I am really so mad at you right now,” he began, his free hand waving around for a few moments before it settled on Patrick’s thigh, “But that was also one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, so, I’m just having some conflicting emotions. We may have to work through them at a later point.”

“Of course,” said Patrick, in the same oddly muted way he’d been behaving since the match penalty. His gaze was fixed on a point about three inches to the left and four above of David’s shoulder. “What would a baseball game be without some conflicting emotions.” He put his hand over David’s on the ice pack and winced at the increased pressure.

“I’m sensing some discomfort,” said David, rubbing his thumb over Patrick’s baseball… jodhpurs. “And not just because your orbital bone may be fractured. I will absolutely drive you to the Elmdale emergency room the _second_ that bruise gets worse.”

Patrick smiled faintly. It wasn’t clear if that was due to a lack of strong emotion or a lack of ability due to the _broken bones in his face_.

“It’s not broken, David,” he offered. He sounded a little like he was trying to soothe a spooked horse which, while a pleasingly romantic mental image, was not so pleasing when David was the metaphorical horse.

“Um, excuse me, I was not aware I was speaking to a medical professional, here,” said David, who was taking everything extremely well. “Since you’re so knowledgeable about the state of your face, maybe you could explain exactly how it came to be so miraculously unbroken?”

Patrick sighed. He was sitting on the motel desk, cleats probably endangering the panelling on the front, while David stood in the space between his thighs. It was unfortunately about one hundred percent less sexy than it should’ve been, which David was absolutely going to make up for at some point.

David waited for a very reasonable thirty seconds before he took his hand off Patrick’s thigh and crossed it over his stomach, trying his best not to wrinkle the fabric. Patrick winced again. David had a feeling it wasn’t to do with his face.

“Did someone on the other team say something to you?” David asked, voice quieter. Twyla had called in her cousin’s team from a couple towns over for the game, a whole bunch of small town guys who were mostly okay as long as David didn’t get close enough to hear what they were actually talking about over their lukewarm gazpacho and two-for-one cocktails.

Patrick, apparently sensing that David wasn’t going to let him get off the desk until he gave in, nodded.

“Right,” said David. He put his hand back on Patrick’s thigh. “And what exactly did they say that got you to treat his face like Nancy Kerrigan’s knees? And again, no judgement, because it was hot and I have a hypoactive moral compass, but I think we do need to talk about it.”

Patrick frowned. “Your moral compass is fine, David.”

“_So_ not the point,” David replied immediately. “You don’t lose your temper like that ever, Patrick. Even when I forget to order new receipt rolls or restock the kale chips, and we both know how much the kale chips get to you.”

“I would never lose my temper with you, David. Not like… this.” Patrick moved his free hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail, gnawing at it. His next words were, unsurprisingly, somewhat muffled.

David frowned sideways, one eyebrow rising automatically. “What was that?”

Patrick took his thumb out of his mouth. “The guy I punched, he was talking about you.” The way Patrick said _talking_ left very little room for doubt about exactly what had been said.

That was, somehow, a surprise to David. Patrick met his gaze, finally, his wide brown eyes still showing traces of his earlier anger.

“Yeesh,” said David, feeling a little like _he _was the one who got punched. “Was he at least original about it?”

“David –”

“I mean,” said David, ploughing on. “If the baseball gods couldn’t make him any good at the sport they designed that garish uniform for, they could’ve at least blessed him with the ability to trash talk without going straight for grade school bullshit.”

“David,” said Patrick. The ice pack dropped to the floor with a very incorrect squelching noise. “David, it doesn’t matter how he said it. I’m not going to repeat it, he’s gone back to Bear Mill with a black eye, and I already punched him in the face, so the repercussions are kind of limited.”

David ducked his head. His chest felt too full, like his ribs had grown a few sizes without giving his lungs a head’s up. “Well, far be it from me to condone any violence, but – thank you, Patrick. No one’s really, uh, defended me like that before. And it means you didn’t actually punch a man over sports, which would’ve been a heinous misstep in your ongoing spiritual journey.”

Patrick made the face he always made when David alluded to his checkered sexual history – a face that spoke of deep seated resentment that anyone had made David feel anything less than beloved.

“I can’t actually reward you sexually, since it would set a precedent in our relationship which my therapist would be very critical of,” he continued, matter-of-factly. “But I can definitely watch a Disney movie with you and pretend you’re not crying when the big song happens.”

“Alright,” said Patrick. He leant forward and kissed David, soft and quick, careful of the tender skin around his cheekbone that was sure to turn purple by morning. “What are my choices?” He asked, sounding a little more like his usual self.

“Whatever is in the DVD folder Ted left in the motel before his flight out,” said David. “So, mostly animal-centric voyages of discovery.”

“Oh, my favourite,” said Patrick. He slipped off the desk and wrapped his arms around David’s waist, a natural progression. David return the hug, arms around Patrick’s neck. His baseball uniform, not entirely hideous as it was, was soft with repeated washing. Patrick pressed his forehead into David’s shoulder and clung for a little bit.

“Just for the record,” said David, into Patrick’s neck. “I’m still angry, just – not at you, anymore.”

Patrick tightened his grip, fingers pulling David’s sweater tight against his back.

David was not too ashamed to admit that he clung back. It had been long enough since anyone gave him shit for this specific part of himself that the reminder felt like ice-cold water being poured down his throat. And Patrick having to hear it was even worse, because David, at least, had developed a thick skin through years of unhealthy coping mechanisms and even less healthy relationships. Patrick, for all that he was inherently the most sensible person David had ever met, had not had the opportunity.

Eventually they had to let go, because the desk was at least nominally meant to be manned 24/7, and Stevie’s shift was coming up. She’d seen David in states of distress far more advanced than this, but his desire to shield Patrick from, well, everything in the world, was much more prevalent in his mind than any potential blackmail material.

“Let’s go to the apartment,” he suggested, fishing Patrick’s car keys out of his pants pocket and pressing Patrick himself into the passenger seat with the aux cord. “Don’t pick anything that will make me reconsider our evening plans.”

“Oh, we have plans?” Patrick said, eyes wide and a smirk hovering at the corners of his mouth. His voice shook just slightly.

“I hear we’re going to be watching a kid’s cartoon about a fox fighting the evils of feudalism,” said David. “Or maybe one about how dogs should really not be given the right to adopt puppies on behalf of their owners, because they go kind of overboard with it.”

101 Dalmatians haunted David’s childhood for years. He’d had nightmares about an invasion of hyperactive puppies well into his teens, when Alexis had stopped pestering Adelina to pester mom and dad about a dog and stolen Paris Hilton’s chihuahua for the week instead.

The drive to the apartment was quiet, punctuated by the soft sound of jazz drifting from the speakers. It was nice, even if David hadn’t listened to jazz on purpose since a truly heinous quartet had almost ruined his first gallery event. There was only so much improvising David would tolerate when he had an _ambience_ to create, and improvising a tryst with the gallery director’s wife had certainly not been on the approved setlist.

David opened the apartment door with an audible sigh of relief. Bypassing the main light, he flicked on the floor lamp and went to fetch Ted’s DVD binder, which was meticulously organised and featured [a meme printout](https://en.bcdn.biz/Images/2016/6/10/6dccced1-b707-4568-bf19-edc6801be662.jpg) slipped into the plastic cover, and a bag of peas from the freezer.

He handed both to Patrick, who had changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt in record time, and sat down next to him on the couch. He leaned into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

“Knock yourself out,” said David. “Not literally though. We’ve had enough broken face bones in this house.”

“Again, David, my face is not broken,” said Patrick, already looking through the DVDs. “Ted, uh, really likes animal movies, huh.” He indicated the current four-disc spread, all of which featured AirBud in a variety of unlikely poses.

“Please don’t tell me you’re surprised by that,” said David. “Alexis quoted Homeward Bound at me last time we spoke, it’s literally horrifying.”

Alexis and Ted had very intermittent access to a satellite phone at their base camp. Generally, Alexis spent most of her monthly call time asking David to google the symptoms of a new and exciting tropical disease that may or may not be rampant in the Galapagos, and occasionally updating him on the progress of her full body tan.

“I don’t think I could quote literally anything from that movie,” said Patrick, thoughtfully. He turned another page of discs. “Oh, definitely this one,” he said, tapping one of the DVDs.

David looked down. A CGI pig beamed up at him.

“God,” he said. “The things I do for love.”

Patrick grinned at him. “If we watch this, I can never call you babe again. I’m sacrificing something too here.”

“Just put in the fucking thing,” said David, grinning helplessly back. This feat accomplished, he pulled his feet up onto the couch and leaned fully into Patrick’s side. “If you’re gonna touch my hair, just be aware that there _will_ be repercussions down the line.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Patrick. He kissed the top of David’s head, just where his hair started to part. “You’re real good at keeping your promises.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated (and gifted) to best beloved Jay, because it is his fault that I have been having feeeelings about this scenario for WEEKS now. (Next up: the Cinderella (2015) AU :P)
> 
> The team is never invited back, and also, Moira drives out to Bear Hill and eggs the baseball field. It's not very effective but the message is clear. "Where did all the eggs go?" Johnny will ask, scratching the back of his head, completely unaware of his wife's vigilante justice.
> 
> Obviously they are watching Babe: Pig in the City, which as I recall from my childhood is a fully mental film. 
> 
> Title is from Sonnet XVI by Pablo Neruda, because I am running out of apt songs for fic titles and one day soon I will have no lines of Never Quite Free to turn to. Gotta save up those precious Mountain Goats.
> 
> Find me on twitter/tumblr @dotsayers! I am splitting time equally between Schitt's Creek and Roswell: New Mexico at the moment, which exist at completely opposite ends of the soft/anguished M/M rep spectrum.


End file.
